


to this one I'm sworn

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Bartender AU, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 07:18:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11099634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: Paul Scholes's guide to why you shouldn't be best friends with someone when you're hopelessly in love with their big brother.





	to this one I'm sworn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neyvenger (jjjat3am)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts).



> \- For the friends to lovers june prompt  
> \- for Julija always, who believed in this lil ship that could  
> \- look at them being [smol and cute](http://i1.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/incoming/article8378753.ece/ALTERNATES/s615/JS53810918.jpg), thats all im saying
> 
>   
> _Pour me a drink Theresa in one of those glasses you dust off_  
>  _And I'll watch the bones in your back like the stations of the cross_  
>  _'Round your hair the sun lifts a halo, at your lips a crown of thorns_  
>  _Whatever the deal's going down, to this one I'm sworn_  
>  \- Bruce Springsteen, I'll Work For Your Love

"You look too happy for a Monday morning," Scholesy observes sourly, wiping the glass with a sullen kind of anger better suited to WengerOut fans learning about the new contract. 

"I'm in a pub on a Monday morning," the man points out, grinning. Scholesy shrugs. Fair point. "Could I get a cider?" 

"Strong stuff," Scholesy deadpans, snatching a bottle off the shelf and sliding it over to the blonde, who makes an absolute mess of trying to catch it while looking cool and ends up dangling dangerously off his chair, cider dripping from his fingers. "You, uh. Sure you aren't drunk already?" 

"I am a paragon of grace," the man insists, but he's floundering around trying to extricate his time from the railing under the bar. Scholesy shakes his head and wonders how he manages to get out of bed on a daily basis.

"It's the school holidays," the man blurts out suddenly. "I teach the year fours at Grosvenor Road." He rubs his neck and grins, sheepish. "Just so you don't think I'm a complete nutter." 

"Too late for that," Scholesy snorts, although as much of a smile as he can manage does flit across his face. It's hard to maintain the going-to-burn-down-the-world vibe when confronted with the human equivalent of a beagle pup.

"And I'm only here because Gaz said the drinks would be free." 

"Gaz?" 

"My brother. Gary Neville. He's going to be the new owner of the pub, have you met him?" 

"Oh." Yeah, Scholesy's met him. Likes his incessant chatter and unstoppable buzzing and crooked nose. Maybe more than he ought to. 

The man grins into his cider. "He's a handful." 

"No kidding." Scholesy throws him a careful glance. "Likes the right team, though." 

"United till I die." The man pulls a face, exaggerates his accent, sounds remarkably like Gary. Scholesy laughs and nods, once, before the door tinkles and two more Monday morning losers walk in. They get whiskies and he moves to pour them, doesn't turn around to look when the man leaves.

 

-

 

"Met your brother the other day," he says offhandedly. They're in the back of the pub tallying up expenses and the like. It's getting late and Gary frowns at the numbers, obviously not a maths person.

"I need an accountant," he sighs. "You have any hidden in that neverending cave of yours where you bottle up all the awful things in the world?" 

"Yeah, but they're all stuck too far up their arses to be of any use." Scholesy shakes his head. "Your brother, Gaz." 

"What, Philip?" Gary pulls a face. "A total wanker," he proclaims with all the officious affection of an older brother. "You'd like him. He's impossible to depress. Chipper all the time. Bit annoying after a while, really."

"Sounds like a challenge." 

"You will not turn my little brother into a miserable sod," Gary says sharply.

 

-

 

Phil comes in a lot more now that Gary works here too. He's always got something to say and Scholesy has steadily learnt to tune it out, filtering through the sickeningly cheerful observations of adorable dogs and bright blue skies and the absolutely hilarious thing one of his kids did that day. 

Still. It's a bit of company, especially on the slow nights when there's nowt a football in sight. In a way it's almost reassuring to listen to him babbling on about things that don't matter. It takes his mind off things that do, even just a little. Gary had told him that no one could be mad at Phil for long, and Scholesy finds himself getting used to him, the small pockets of silence where it's just Phil humming the Coronation Street theme tune to himself almost a comfort.

 

-

 

Business goes all right. It isn't exactly wealth raining down from the heavens when they're a small pub in the Northern Quarter and sometimes Scholesy still has to clean off gay slurs sprayed in white paint outside the door. But his stay at the pub stretches from two months to ten and he isn't at all bothered with his parents' gentle exhortations for him to do something better with his life.

Probably has something to do with the fact that he may or may not be in love with the pub owner. He tries not to think about that too much.

"Eh, Paul," Phil says. 

"I told you to call me Scholesy," Scholesy rolls his eyes. "Literally everyone does." 

"I do what I like," Phil grins, slurring. United are playing and playing badly and that's probably why Phil's already drunk more than his usual bottle of cider. His alcohol capacity borders on truly embarrassing. "Stop wiping that mug and sit with me and watch, will you?" 

"Gaz would have my head." 

"I'll save you," Phil offers gallantly. "Don't worry about him. Come on. Oblige your mate, will you?" 

"Who said we were mates?" Scholesy raises an eyebrow, but he puts down the mug and goes to sit next to Phil anyway. United pull one back and he allows him to be sucked back into those red shirts on the screen, Phil screaming like a banshee when Beckham scores, slinging an arm around his neck that he doesn't even try to bat away. 

 

-

 

Ten months ends up seventeen. Scholesy knows the whole of Phil's class by now and occasionally offers insights as to how to deal with the problematic kids, although most of them involve some sort of blood-letting and are therefore impractical at best. Sometimes when Phil reaches out to ruffle his hair he'll let him with only the smallest of complaints; most of the time, though, Phil retreats with his hand red and stinging and his dignity firmly bruised.

(Gary isn't the sort to ruffle anyone's hair, even his brother's, but sometimes Scholesy thinks hypothetically until Phil catches him staring into the middle distance and he flushes.) 

It's comfort that Scholesy works best in, and this is it: Gaz tending bar while Scholesy takes his hour off sitting next to Phil, who's going on about the latest technological wonder he hasn't yet figured out how to use. Scholesy shakes his head in exasperation and snatches the phone out of Phil's hand, grumbling about how Phil would be dead by now if he or Gary didn't exist, and Phil happily agrees. 

Sometimes when it's closing time and Gary's bent over the bar scrubbing fastidiously at a dirt stain, Scholesy pauses in his mopping of the floor to watch the way his brow meets in the middle and his mouth pulls into a small curve. He never says anything, and Gary never looks up.

 

-

 

Then Beckham happens, as he somehow always does.

 

-

 

Scholesy comes in once on his day off and finds Gary serving drinks to a blonde who looks exactly like a footballer. "Has anyone ever told you," he says, and Gary kicks him under the bar. 

"This is David," he says. Scholesy twitches his mouth and slinks to the other end where Phil's seat is empty and inviting.

 

-

 

"Beckham and your brother," he says two weeks later, in the middle of the day when Phil's the only person in. "What's that about?" 

Phil waves a dismissive hand in the air. "Oh, you know. Typical Gaz bullshit. I'm pretty sure he's head over heels in love with him but he isn't going to do anything about it, because he's an Englishman and Englishmen keep their feelings in the trash where they belong." 

"Ha." Scholesy feels a curious sort of burning sensation down the back of his throat and blinks it away, scrubbing the cup in his hands instead. Phil watches him with his head tilted, like he's trying to figure out something.

When he speaks again there's a strange note to his voice that Scholesy's not heard before. "Paul. We're mates, right?" 

"I s'pose." 

"You know you can talk to me about anything, yeah?" 

"Uh-huh." 

"Okay." Phil gives him a big, bright smile, almost an apology. "Just checking." 

Scholesy grunts and slips off the stool to retreat behind the bar, wiping the same cup he's been wiping for the past fifteen minutes. If Phil's noticed, he doesn't say anything. Just looks down into his cider, his brow meeting the way his older brother's does. Scholesy swallows and puts his feelings in the trash where they belong.

 

-

 

"A party," Scholesy blinks.

"A party," Gary nods. 

" _ A party. _ "

"Repeating it is not going to make it any less likely to happen." 

"You know I hate big social gatherings," he whines, folding his arms across his chest and giving Gary a death stare that would have caused anyone else to have spontaneously burst into flames. 

"You hate all social gatherings," Gary points out, which is also true. "Listen. It's just a one-time thing, yeah? David's regular place closed down and we thought this might do for a stretch." He waggles his eyebrows. "Rich people means bonuses." 

Scholesy doesn't want to say what else rich people mean, or indeed what one particular rich person means. Instead he twitches his mouth and Gary looks at him, worried. 

"Don't tell me. You've got plans." 

"I could have plans." 

"Fucking knew it." Gary shoves his hands into his pocket and frowns. He's always been cuter when petulant, Scholesy thinks, but of course he doesn't say this. "Can't cancel?" 

"No. It's very important." 

"What is it?" Now Gary's intrigued, which means he won't stop pursuing the matter until he gets an answer, which makes things far more difficult than they should have been. "It's not a date, is it?" 

Scholesy chokes. "What?"

"It's a date," Gary jabs a finger in the air triumphantly. "I knew something would happen eventually, you old hermit. 'Bout time you got around to doing something with that weirdly adorable face of yours."

If Scholesy had been anyone else, he would have seized the opportunity and they'd probably be making out against the closet by now. Unfortunately he's Paul Scholes, bottler extraordinaire, and he looks away and laughs.

"S'not a date. I'd just. Rather not go." 

Gary huffs. When Scholesy looks back he groans, because Gary's doing that stupid pleading thing with his stupid face and stupid everything. 

"Come on," he wheedles. "I'm never gonna find another bartender as good as you. For me?" 

"For you," Scholesy finally agrees, knows that what they both mean when they say that are completely different things, wishes that the Nevilles had never come into his life at all.

 

-

 

It's probably because he's a little drunk. Correction: it is because he's a little drunk. Further correction: he's very drunk. It's the night before the party and he's managed to rope Phil into stocking up the bar (not that it was difficult; all he did was ask and all Phil did was reply, far too happily, "would I  _ ever _ !"). Putting out the bottles has also resulted in inhaling some of it, and by the time it's one in the morning he's completely and utterly gone.

"Phil." 

Phil looks up all expectant, the way he does whenever anyone calls his name, like that sodding beagle pup.

"Yeah?" 

"Y'know that thing you said? 'Bout us being mates?" 

"Mhm." 

"I wanna tell you something." 

"Okay." Phil's practically bouncing around in delight, Scholesy observes with much disgust. This is probably right up his alley, isn't it, being all  _ nice  _ and  _ helpful _ and whatever. 

"You can't tell your brother." 

He thinks he sees Phil's shoulders sag a little, the way people did when they suddenly realised what this was about and knew that there was no happy ending and ended up being more sympathetic than they ought to have been. "Oh," Phil says, and Scholesy knows that he knows.

He scrunches his face up and falls into the nearest available chair. As it turns out it's one with no back and he begins to tilt over, leaving Phil to have to catch him and drag him upright again. 

"That obvious, huh?" 

"Well." Phil grins it off. "Only to me, and only because I know the two of you so well."

"Gaz doesn't know?" 

"Do you know him at all? Gaz wouldn't know even if you wore heart eyes on your face and snogged him." 

"Oh. Good." 

They lapse into a beat of silence. Phil, Scholesy realises all of a sudden, is still holding him up, and he leans back into his chest; not to be a little shit and topple the both of them over, as he ordinarily would, but this time because there's a strange kind of assurance in the way Phil's warm and firm.

"You should tell him," Phil says after a while. "Tomorrow, or something." 

"I dunno."

"Listen, Scholesy." It's the first time Phil's called him that, and Scholesy blinks. "If you don't tell him he isn't ever going to work it out for himself because he's a thick sod, all right? So just do it. Don't be a - a - "

"- Liverpool fan saying 'next year's our year'," Scholesy finishes, and Phil gives him a grin. He finds himself grinning back, heart settling. "All right." 

"Good." Phil ruffles his hair and he doesn't move away. "Now will you sit up straight? You're really fucking heavy." 

 

-

 

He makes an effort and everything - looks like a proper bartender instead of a bloke who's wandered round the wrong end of the bar - put on the bow tie that Phil bought and swallowed the bunch of pills that a horrified Gary fed to him after learning of the potential for a massive hangover. Gary works right beside him all evening but every time he opens his mouth, for all the alcohol he's drank in the past twenty four hours, it's still dry.

Phil sits at the back of the room chatting to Beckham and his mates, and every once in a while he looks over at Scholesy with some kind of a threatening encouragement. Given the subject in question, it isn't exactly the most menacing.

The evening wears on. Scholesy keeps his hands on the cocktails and his eyes down, doesn't even say anything when their fingers brush as they reach for the same bottle.

It's getting very late and the crowd is thinning out when Gary excuses himself for a toilet break and Phil scoots over, the Gleam in his eye telling Scholesy that he's got one of his very dumb ideas and isn't about to let it go.

"I'll stand in for you," he hisses. "You go on and catch him." 

"You want me to tell your brother I love him in the toilet." 

"Better privacy than here, yeah?" 

"No, wait." Scholesy shakes his head. "You'll stand in for me? Phil, you can't even make  _ tea  _ \- "

"I'll improvise. I'll talk to 'em." Phil smiles winningly. "I'm very charming. Now  _ go. _ "

Unceremoniously hustled out of his comfort zone, Scholesy stumbles towards the loo. Except Gary isn't there. The door out back is open, though, and he follows it, his brain bursting with a million ways of trying to explain the situation and not be a repressed little fucker about it. 

Gary's there.

He isn't alone. Of course he isn't alone.

Scholesy stumbles back into the pub, a bitter aftertaste rising in his throat, the alcohol-induced haze settling like a mist over his eyes. He thinks maybe someone's calling his name but he doesn't hear it; instead he shoves his way straight to the bar, where Phil's standing talking to a bunch of people, wide-eyed and young.

"Paul - " he looks up when he hears Scholesy coming, but then his smile falters a little. "What happened?" 

"You're my best mate, right?" Scholesy says, harsh. His own breathing thunders in his ears all ragged. 

"Golly, really? That's such a nice thing to - "

"Would you do this one thing for me? And not ask any questions after?" 

"Of course, but w - "

Scholesy closes his eyes, tiptoes, presses his lips against Phil's.

He senses Phil stiffening at first and pushes harder, tilting his head to part Phil's lips until Phil seems to give in. There's the sound of glass breaking and Scholesy pulls away, looks at Phil for a second, tries to explain without saying anything.

Phil's staring back at him, his lips pink, cheeks flushed. Scholesy turns around and sees Gary, still in the shadows. He grabs his coat and leaves.

 

-

 

No one says anything for a long time after that.

Scholesy still turns up for work - it's a job, after all, and he has nowhere else to go - but Gary's somehow never in when he is, and after a couple of days he finds that Gary's hired two new bartenders instead. Ryan and Nicky are great fun, regardless of their insistence on trying to buy him a fancy dress costume of an actual ginger root, but it isn't quite the same thing.

Phil hasn't come in either. Of all the things Scholesy regrets, it's landing Phil in the middle of this when it had nothing to do with him at all. He wonders if he should call, maybe try to explain himself or something, except he doesn't know what he would say. 

He glares daggers at anyone who sits in Phil's seat, though. As if it would help. 

It must be three weeks before he finally sees that familiar head of blonde hair again, and his heart leaps a little as he sidles up and puts a bottle of cider down.

"You've been gone," he says, which is as much of a 'missed you' as anyone's ever going to get. Phil looks up at him and grins, and it's so real and genuine that Scholesy feels the tension in his shoulders disappearing, half of his worries falling away like that.

"Sorry. School got a bit busier. It's not much fun telling little kids that they can't just spell ''lackadaisical' any way they want." His smile fades out a little. "And, uh. Not that much fun listening to them joke about kissing other blokes and all that, either." 

The colour strips itself from Scholesy's face and he looks at Phil in horror, barely having even thought about that. "Oh, christ," he mumbles helplessly. "I'm so sorry, mate, I didn't think - "

Phil shrugs it off with a laugh. "No worries, Scholesy. Honestly. Everyone kind of knew anyway, eh?" 

"I s'pose." 

"Anyway, we're still mates, yeah?" 

He's twenty-four and looks it, and suddenly Scholesy is so very aware of how  _ good  _ he is, this lad who he's completely fucked over but still wants to be friends. Who he knows would do anything for him, has done everything for him, as long as he asked. 

"Yeah. 'Course." He swallows and reaches up to put his hand on the back of Phil's neck, runs his thumb through the blonde hair. "Not getting rid of me so easy."

 

-

 

Phil seems to realise that he has a unique opportunity in his hands - guilt tripping Paul Scholes into doing social things - and he's certainly taking full advantage of it, whether it's forcing him out to a movie or convincing him that dinner at Phil's place isn't as bad as it sounds. (It's exactly as bad as it sounds; Phil manages to set the oven on fire, admits that he's never done a day's cooking in his life, and they have to call his mum to come and fix everything. It's the first time Scholesy meets Mrs Neville and it is suitably mortifying. She spends most of her time looking at him knowingly, a deduction Scholesy is not willing to pursue.) 

Scholesy's still ninety percent sworn off social interaction, but the more it happens the easier it gets, and he find that he doesn't mind it so much when Phil rings up all chipper with whatever the adventure for the weekend is. Even mindless art galleries are made slightly more bearable when the blonde is bouncing around trying so very hard to look intellectual and clever that Scholesy can do nothing but smile.

In a way, Phil's persistent belligerence in dragging Scholesy out reminds him of Gary's persistent belligerence in everything. But he hasn't thought of that in a while, and he's decided that he's not going to think about that for a very long time.

Ryan and Nicky become significantly more tolerable once they drop the ginger root idea and it isn't so bad not seeing Gary around, crouched over the bar, utter concentration written all over his face as he pours drinks with an exactness usually reserved for scientific experiments. Yes, he decides. Gary can bunk off all he wants with cocky London lads. Things are fine, just the way they are. 

 

-

 

Then Beckham happens, as he somehow always does.

 

-

 

Scholesy's just locking up the pub one night when he sees Gary sitting on the steps behind the building, his shoulders hunched the way they shouldn't. Against his better judgement he shuffles over, hands in pockets, and gives Gary's foot a nudge with his own, gentle.

"Gaz." 

Gary looks up and gives him a wan smile.

"Scholesy." 

With a disgruntled huff that's really a disguised worried sigh, Scholesy squeezes himself into the space between Gary and the railing. Gary scoots over to make some room for him but it's a tight step and he still finds himself maybe closer to Gary than he ought to have been, shoulders and knees touching, faces far too close if they turned their heads. 

"He's going away," Gary says after a long time. He's trying to keep his voice steady, but Scholesy's known him far too long for pretence.

"Where?" 

"Spain." 

"Too hot for me, that." 

"You think twenty degrees is hot, you daft twat." 

"That's why I'd never leave." 

He hadn't meant for it to come out that way and he bites his lip, hoping that Gary won't draw his own conclusions. Gary turns to look at him anyway. He's got very soft, brown eyes, not at all like the sharp sweetness of Phil's blues.

"Why did you kiss Phil?" he asks. 

He's very close. Scholesy's throat is dry as he says, "I suppose I was trying to make you jealous." 

"Why?" 

Very close. Scholesy gets out a "because - " and then Gary's leaned in, and his lips are thin and chapped and taste slightly of the wine he's drunk, and one hand's sliding around to wrap itself around Scholesy's neck while the other cups his cheek, and Scholesy sits there dumbly with his eyes closed and his heart in his mouth.

Be selfish, his brain's telling him, and that's when the realisation rams into his head like a truck. It makes his breath stop a little -a quiet  _ fuck  _ \- and he blinks as he runs it through his head twice, but the epiphany stays there as clear as day. Clear as the sweetest, sharpest blue.

He puts a hand on Gary's chest and pushes, just enough to allow him to break away. Gary looks at him wounded. 

"Am I not a good kisser?" he whines. It'd almost be funny if it weren't so serious. Scholesy laughs. 

"You're an excellent kisser," he grins, and it's true; Beckham is a very lucky man (and Scholesy would never have thought that between Gary and Beckham he'd say that). "It's just. This isn't what you want, Gaz." 

"I could do," Gary slurs, stubborn. "You're my best mate, Scholesy, I could - " 

"Gaz. I can't compete with Becks for the rest of my life." 

Gary falls silent. Scholesy gives him a little nudge with his knee but doesn't say anything either. The Manchester night hangs heavy in the air.

"What about you, then?" he says eventually, looks at Scholesy with a wry grin that makes Scholesy's stomach settle. "You can't stay a lonely ginger hermit your whole life." 

"You're right, I can't. I'll go grey at some point, remember?" 

Gary rolls his eyes. "Scholesy." 

"I'll be fine, Gaz." Scholesy swallows, wondering if he ought to say. "I have someone else I need to talk to." 

"Oooh. Anyone I know?" 

"You concentrate on your melodrama for now." 

"Uh-huh." Gary snorts. "Can't bloody wait." 

"You gonna be all right?" 

"Yeah. Are you?" 

"Yeah." 

They don't say anything after that. Just sit on the steps, Scholesy leaning slightly into Gary, until they've fallen asleep and the sun is creeping over the horizon.

 

-

 

"Oh." 

Scholesy blinks all groggy and rubs his eyes until the figure blocking out the light swims slowly into focus. Phil's looking down at him, a weird expression on his face Scholesy's never seen before, all pale and strange. 

"Phil - ?" 

Phil makes half a noise that sounds like he's being strangled, and then he coughs and manages an 'I'll leave you to it' before turning on his heel and positively fleeing. Frowning, Scholesy looks down to find an arm across his chest.

_ Oh. _

"Gaz," he mumbles, pushing Gary off him as he struggles to stand up. Gary moans and drapes even more of his weight onto Scholesy, who gives him a stare so judgemental he should have gone into law. "Gaz. Get your fat - arse - off me, will you - I need to -  _ Gaz  _ \- " 

Eventually he manages to shrug Gaz off and stumbles into the pub, his bleary eyes looking around for Phil. Ryan leers conspiratorially at him as he tilts his head towards the far corner, where Nicky's feeding Phil copious amounts of hot chocolate.

"Phil." He crashes into a table and looks at it irritably before muddling his way through to a seat. "Listen - " 

"It's  _ great _ ," Phil cuts across him, his usual energy miraculously back but somehow accompanied by a slightly hysterical gleam in his eye. "About fucking  _ time _ , Scholesy. I'm so happy for you two. You know what you should do? You should go to Amsterdam and get married and I can be best man and when England finally gets its head out of its arse you can do it again at Old Trafford and Gaz would probably die with happiness and it'll be  _ great  _ and - "

"Phil," Scholesy groans, the running commentary jarring into his skull because it's too sodding early to listen to something so shrill. "Shut up for a minute, will you? It was only a kiss - " 

"A kiss!" Phil is practically screeching by this point. "A kiss! Well, then, that's practically it! When are you two moving in together? Can I help? I know a bunch of companies, I had to contact them for one of the kids at school, if we all share our season tickets next year maybe you could cobble together something for a real nice place, my friend knows a real estate agent, I could give him a ring - " 

" _ Philip _ ," Scholesy says firmly. "If you don't shut up I will seriously reconsider kissing you again." 

"- speaking of rings, we should definitely get them earlier because the Tiffany's sale is still early and there might be good stuff left but if not we could definitely check out Swarovski or something although I think it might be a little too - " Phil comes to an abrupt halt and stares at Scholesy wide-eyed. "What did you say?" 

"I said, if you don't shut up I will seriously reconsider doing this." 

Maybe it's the crisp morning air that gives him courage. Maybe it's the fact he's already done it once (and not continuing was the worst mistake he'd ever made). He leans over and presses Phil against the wall, brushing his lips over Phil's just enough to taste the hot chocolate still there.

It's a stupid, stupid idea. He takes his hand off the wall and shifts back in his chair, looking at Phil worriedly. He doesn't even know if that's what Phil wants, fuck's sake, and maybe he's just ruined the best friendship, lost the best friend he's ever had. "I'm sorry," he begins to say, but Phil shakes his head.

"This isn't another wind-up, is it?" 

"No." If there's anything to be glad for it's that it's early on a Sunday and no one's around to see him completely and utterly embarrass himself. Scholesy takes a deep breath. "Listen, Phil. There's only one person I'd go out to the movies with. Only one person whose mind-numbingly boring stories about primary school kids I'd willingly listen to." 

"I thought you just tuned them out," Phil says dumbly.

"Well. Yeah, a little. But I know all of their names and stuff. I know it's Keith who got zero for comprehension and Lily who batted her eyelashes at you and Hadley who tried to give you a wedgie." 

"Oh."

Scholesy wrings his hands helplessly. "I only ever remember United players, y'know." 

Phil pushes himself off the wall and puts his hand under Scholesy's chin to tilt his face upwards, until Scholesy's looking straight into unblinking clear blue eyes. "What about Gaz?" he whispers. 

'What about him?"

"Don't you - well - want him instead?" 

"Philip Neville," Scholesy mutters, reaching up to put his hand on Phil's face, running a thumb over the soft, burning skin. Their noses bump and Phil grins, tilting his head ever so slight to pause an inch over Scholesy's mouth. "Stop ruining the mood by talking about your brother and just snog me." 

Which Phil, in due course, does.

 

-

 

"Fucking knew it," Ryan crows from behind the bar where he and Nicky are stood watching Phil and Scholesy make out. "Ten quid, Butty." 

Nicky grumbles as he sticks his hand around in his pocket and fishes out a tenner, which he sourly slaps into Ryan's hand. "Can't believe I backed the wrong Neville."

"Speaking of whom." Ryan frowns. "Oi. Scholesy. Hate to interrupt your touching Harry Met Sally reenactment, but did you just leave Gaz outside, alone, and piss-drunk in order to bang his baby brother?" 

Scholesy emerges with one hand still buried in Phil's hair, looking completely mortified. "Oh, fuck, I did - "

"Never mind," Nicky says from where he's peering out the window. "He's been busy." 

The other three of them rush to the window and react with varying levels of horror. 

"Is that a cat - " 

"Why's he wearing a guitar on his head - " 

"I  _ told  _ you that ginger root costume would look good on someone - "

 

-

 

Later, when they've managed to get Gary to swear off screaming  _ Wonderwall  _ into random strangers' faces as a way of mourning, Scholesy and Phil go to the movies. Scholesy doesn't remember what the movie is, only that Phil's hand is wrapped in his, fingers tight, and even though Phil is entirely into the movie (as he always is) he gives Scholesy's hand a squeeze every once in a while.

"Let's go to Amsterdam," Scholesy says.

"Okay," Phil says, and the smile lights up his face like the midday sun.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- suggestions for their pub name are welcome  
> \- year fours are 8-9s  
> \- Grosvenor Road is Giggsy's old school  
> \- The Netherlands was the first country to legalise gay marriage  
> \- (omg look how short these notes are)  
> \- thanks for reading, comments are appreciated, etc etc <3


End file.
